These South Side Blues
by meganface
Summary: A Breaking Bad inspired AU in which Lip and Mickey start to cook meth together. Lip/Mandy, Ian/Mickey. also warnings for drug use and graphic violence.
1. Chapter 1

"Want me to suck you off?" the boy asks, his pupils blown wide, eyelids drooping.

Lip takes a drag on his cigarette. "I'm good. Thanks." By now, he isn't even fazed by the array of male hookers that hang about this street corner. He's never here for them and they don't hassle him when he politely turns them down, offers up his cigarettes when they ask if they can bum a smoke. He has Ian to thank for this particular area of desensitisation; he works bar at some sketchy as fuck strip club not too far from Lip's apartment and Lip hasn't lost his protective big brother streak just yet, doesn't let Ian walk to the El on his own.

"Hey Red, you finally gonna fuck me or what?"

Smiling at James' usual request, Ian quickly walks over to Lip. The idiot isn't wearing gloves or anything, his thin hoodie not nearly enough to protect him from the harsh cold (and he fucking wonders why he gets "man-flu" so often).

"Nah, it's a little late," Ian says, winking at James, "maybe tomorrow."

James dramatically deflates against the wall, sighing. "Promises, promises."

Lip pats Ian on the back when he reaches him, tugs on the drawstring of his hoodie. "Want pneumonia for Christmas?"

"Wasn't this cold earlier." He breathes out into the night air, watching his breath swirl white before it disappears. "Plus I gotta get a new coat and won't have enough money for it for another week."

Money is always a problem. Always. Even when it seems like their situation has gotten better something shitty comes along and it's back to being poor again. Lip is used to it, knows no different, and so are his siblings but they shouldn't be. Having to wear your scarf and three sweaters to bed because nobody could afford to pay for the heating isn't something that should fucking happen; learning techniques to get away with stealing so that you have something substantial to eat for dinner is not something that should happen. And yet Lip is all too familiar with the feeling of waking up freezing cold, of distracting the local store owners so his younger siblings could sneakily raid the aisles.

College was always a distant possibility for him and he never pretended like he didn't know he was more than smart enough for it. His problem had nothing to do with his intelligence but his family. Because leaving them meant one less person to help look after the younger kids, putting even more responsibility on Fiona's weighed down soldiers.

He left, though. Stayed in Chicago but worked out it was cheaper and easier to rent a place closer to the campus than stay at home. Shortly after Ian left, too, moving closer to Lip but not as far away from the family home. He works two jobs now and does online courses, sends back as much money to Fiona as he can afford. Lip does the same. It's still barely enough.

Lip takes a long drag on his cigarette, holds it in his lungs until they begin to burn and blows it through his nostrils. "Come back to mine tonight, be reminded of what it's like to sleep in the warmth."

For once, Ian doesn't argue. Says, "Yeah, okay. So long as I don't have the sound of you and Mandy to send me to sleep," with a shit-eating grin.

Lip snorts. "Nah, she's pissed off at me again so it's just me and my hand for the foreseeable future."

"How tragic."

"I give it 24 hours, she's hornier than I am," Lips says, exhaling smoke through his nostrils.

Ian is silent beside him, probably put off by the mention of straight sex.

...

Despite how late it is, Mandy's still awake, sat cross-legged on the couch with the laptop. She looks up at the sound of the front door closing, smiling when she spots Ian behind him.

"Stayin' over?" she asks, doing a perfect job of ignoring Lip

Lip gives her a flat look then heads for the kitchen when she doesn't bother acknowledging his existence. He hasn't actually done a thing wrong; how is it his fault that his ex decided to send him a postcard from France? Answer: it fucking isn't. Neither is it his fault that Mandy's as possessive as they come and doesn't understand what "I don't fuck around" means.

Their fridge, he finds, is mostly empty. He lets it shut with a sigh, leaning back against it; maybe if he does the shopping tomorrow Mandy will deem him worthy enough to talk to.

"Lip!" she calls, "Go get the spare sheets and shit for Ian!"

He feels like telling her to get off her ass and do it her fucking self because he hates when arguments come to a standstill, feels like he has to try to make it right and then, if that fails, to think 'fuck it' and make it all worse.

He's tired, though. From college and his shitty part-time job and Ian always gets weird when he and Mandy argue in front of him, so instead he skulks to their room and gets the spare sheets, blanket and pillows.

Mandy shuts the laptop and stands, making space for him to drop everything. "Wanna borrow a t-shirt or something?" he asks Ian.

"Nah," Ian answers, looking up from where he's undoing his shoes, "it's okay."

With nothing left to do, Lip gives him a lazy salute, says, "Night," and heads back to the bedroom. He strips out of his jacket, hangs it on the back of the door then kicks off his boots. Mandy's pretty lax about the place being tidy. Clean, yes, but she's cool with things being all over the place, sometimes having to search for the keys before going out. Lip doesn't know how he'd function if Mandy made him tidy away all of his clothes at night when all he wants to do is collapse onto his bed.

He's just finishing up brushing his teeth when he hears Mandy pad into their room and drop to the bed. He gargles some mouthwash before joining her. Curls up behind her body just to see if she pushes him away.

She doesn't.

"Oh, I can touch you now?" he murmurs, worming a hand up the t-shirt of his that she wears to bed.

"Whatever," she says, aiming for dismissive but Lip can read her so easy.

He scoots even closer, her ass now snug against his crotch. "Missed me?'

Twisting slightly so that Lip can see her face, Mandy raises her eyebrows. "You're not so good that after two days without I start to miss you."

"Yeah?" Lip says, the beginnings of a smile stretching his mouth. Mandy's bite and bark are equally as dangerous but sometimes her words fail to match up with her actions. Like now for instance, she's arching into his touch, her eyes dropping to linger on his mouth. "You can't lie for shit sometimes," he says quietly, bending down closer to catch her lips.

She responds instantly; her hand comes up to cradle his cheek as her lips press against his and she rolls onto her back.

Lip pulls back long enough to lay himself between her parted legs and then he goes back to kissing her. Swipes his tongue against the seam of her lips and bites back a moan when Mandy sucks it into her mouth. He loves having her like this, hands roaming all over his body, back arching so that Lip can feel the heat of her pressing against his hardening dick. When she gets desperate, she begs for it, cries out for Lip to _'just fuck me already'_ as he teasingly circles his tongue around her clit.

He doesn't have the patience for that tonight, just wants to slide into her and make her feel good, make himself feel good.

Mandy trails kisses across his jaw and Lip winds a hand between them and rubs a finger against Mandy's clit. She moans into his skin, rocking her hips so that Lip's fingers press down harder.

"Fuck, stop," she pants, legs beginning to shake already. Lip smiles, smug. "God, you're such a dick, just put on a condom and fuck me."

He laughs under his breath, clambering off of her to rifle through the bedside drawer. She's topless when he turns around, biting her lip and playing with herself. It's only been two days, _two fucking days_, yet Lip feels like he hasn't touched her in weeks.

"Lie down," she says, propping herself up on her elbows, "wanna be on top."

Mandy rides him torturously slow, grinding against him and arching her back. Quietly moaning then laughing when Lip pulls, admittedly, stupid faces.

There's no way in hell that Ian doesn't hear his shout when he comes, Mandy's cry when she follows after him. So he has a bitch fit to look forward to tomorrow; looking at Mandy falling asleep in his arms, he thinks it was worth it.

**OOO**

The shitty floral wallpaper peels slightly, curling in on itself. Mickey stares at it until his eyes feel like they're actually drying up.

"You want my hand, too?"

He looks down at the face hovering over his dick, the line of spit stretching from it to her bottom lip. They've been in this exact same situation dozens of times and still he doesn't know her name, doesn't know a thing about her. Fuck, he doesn't even know what her body feels like. "Yeah, whatever."

She spits onto her hand and wraps it around him. Feels good, though not as good as when her mouth joins it. Bitch could easily do this for money. Mickey isn't exactly sure if she's attractive but he figures guys who have to pay to fuck don't really give a shit about the face attached to the body they're ploughing.

Groaning quietly, he leans further back against the headboard, hand coming up to get tangled in her hair.

It's starting to get real fucking good when the noises from next door start up. At first, Mickey can't make out what's going on; there are a series of loud shouts followed by some muffled banging, nothing too suspicious. But then the shouts and bangs gets even louder, and Mickey's been involved in enough house raids to recognise one. Which would be whatever if the house next door weren't where he and his partner cook their fucking meth.

He bolts up off of the bed, accidentally chokes the girl on his dick and nearly gets it bitten the fuck off.

"Shit, fuck, fucking motherfuckers," he mutters to himself as he does up his jeans. He peers out of the window, sees the DEA and SWAT cars around the corner. They're empty but Mickey can't risk leaving through the front door.

"Hey, what's going on? I didn't even finish you off."

He shrugs her hand off his shoulder. Sure, he wants to come, but he has fucking priorities. No way is he getting busted because he was too busy getting a blowjob.

Not even sparing her a second glance, Mickey opens up her window, ignores her questions, and jumps down onto the roof of the porch. He lands awkwardly on one foot and can't keep his balance, falling to the grass beneath him with a thud.

He jumps up and ignores the pain in his back, how the world is spinning slightly, and begins to walk away as quickly as he can without looking like, y'know, he's running away from his mini meth lab that's currently being fucking raided.

Once he deems himself far enough away, he starts up a jog. That turns into a sprint until he's full on flying down the streets as if he has the DEA on his ass. He goes in the opposite direction of his house; his partner may be trustworthy enough to cook and deal with, but Mickey doesn't know him well enough to be certain he wouldn't snitch. And he sure as shit isn't gonna risk it.

There aren't many places Mickey feels safe enough to go to (he and his partner sharing the same group of friends) but he heads for his sister's place. He doesn't care if she isn't home because her boyfriend seemed alright the couple of times Mickey's met him and he knows where she keeps her spare key.

He's relieved, though, that when the front door opens it's Mandy on the other side..

"Hey," he says, breathless, barging in before she can tell him he's welcome to.

The front room looks nicer than it did he last time Mickey was here. Like, the walls are all painted the same pale blue colour and the couch doesn't look like a fucking corpse began to decompose on it anymore.

He spots Lip in the kitchen, some machinery on the table in front of him and a cigarette balanced between his lips. He heads towards him. "Yo, you buildin' a fuckin' robot?" Because that's what it looks like. And he knows Lip is like, some genius or some shit, but he thought that meant he knew geometry and theorems, boring stuff.

Lip drops the screwdriver and takes a drag of his cigarette. "Nah," he says, scratching his cheek, the smoke swirling in front of his face, "it's a -"

"Like it even matters!" Mandy interrupts. She's right behind Mickey, closer than he thought. She looks pissed. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

Mickey doesn't know why she's being so dramatic; bitch needs to chill out.

A bullshit excuse is quickly forming in his head when she says, "And don't bullshit me, alright? Who were you running from?"

So no point lying then. His defensive posture turns relaxed and he walks over to the fridge. "Y'know Adam, right?" he asks, getting a bottle of beer out. Who gives a fuck if it's three in the afternoon? He opens it on the edge of the counter and takes a long sip, enjoying the obvious way Mandy grows increasingly impatient. "We been cookin' together and our place got busted."

"Shit," Lip sighs, looking at him with raised eyebrows, "how are you not in cuffs right now?"

"I was, uh-" he takes another swig, "next door."

Mandy groans. "Oh my g- seriously? You're still seeing her?"

Mickey takes the seat opposite to Lip's. "The girl who'll suck my dick and not expect anything in return? Fuck yeah, I'm still seein' her."

"Who's sucking who's dick?" comes an unfamiliar voice from behind him.

Curious, Mickey hangs his head backwards off the chair and gets an upside down view of some random, topless guy. His abs are all defined without looking like he injects steroids into his dick, a tan line round his biceps. Mickey stops staring and lifts his head back up. He hasn't been that obvious in a long time. He knows he hides it well and most of the time it isn't even on purpose; musicals and fashion and fucking Lady Gaga just aren't his thing. But when he has a hot guy half-naked just thrown in his face, sometimes he forgets to tone it down.

Thankfully nobody notices and Mandy introduces the guy as Ian, Lip's younger brother.

"Hey, man," Mickey says with a nod.

Ian gives him a friendly smile. "Hi." He gives Lip's shoulder a squeeze as he passes him to get a mug from the cupboard. "Still working on that thing?" he asks, pouring coffee into the cup.

Nodding, Lip takes another drag. "Mm, yeah," he says, a stream of smoke trailing from his nostrils, "almost finished, though." And then he starts talking about different wires and shit, how his class have been made to reconstruct some kind of laser.

Mickey's not really giving him his full attention, occupied with avoiding Mandy's glare by staring at his beer bottle. He can only take it for so long, though, before he snaps, "Fuck, what?" cutting Lip off mid-speech.

Mandy crosses her arms where she's leaning against the door jamb. "What exactly are you gonna do now? And why did you come here?"

"Probably cook by myself for a bit," Mickey sniffs, lounging back in the chair, "maybe find someone else to cook with, not sure yet. And I'm here in case Adam decides to fuckin' rat me out."

"Great, so the fucking police will come here instead?"

He rolls his eyes. "Would you relax? He don't even know I have a sister."

Mandy gives him one last glare before she leaves the room, muttering under her breath. Mickey doesn't know why she's getting all high and mighty when she's actually dealt the meth Mickey makes before, has beaten a girl up so bad that Mickey had to threaten her brothers so they didn't press charges. Seriously, talk about being a hypocrite.

He turns back to Lip, asks, "How the fuck do you put up with her?"

"You probably don't wanna hear the answer," he says around his cigarette, looking up at Mickey with a smirk.

Yeah, no. Mickey doesn't want to hear how sex calms his sister down.

"So, uh, how much of your shit have they taken?"

Mickey stretches his legs out under the table and sighs. "All of it, no doubt. About ten thousand dollars worth. Maybe more."

Lip's eyebrows rise as he slowly takes his cigarette out of his mouth. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, man. That shit is easy to make and fuckin' everybody wants in, so." It's true. Mickey makes easy, fast money, can buy whatever the fuck he wants whenever he wants. Most of the time.

Lip looks thoughtful, considering Mickey with a tilt to his head before going back to his laser.

* * *

**okay so I have three other fics in the works (two one-shots and one long, multi-chap fic) so I don't know how often this'll be updated but I'll try my best!**


	2. Chapter 2

Lip twirls the pen in his hand, adds the numbers in his head, does the calculations until he has his answer. Does them again to be sure and jots it down on the tax form.

A beer is put down in front of him (too close to the papers; he's already had to start again thanks to a spilt drink) and he looks up at Kev. "Thanks," he says, taking a sip and tipping the bottle in his direction as he swallows.

"How's it coming along, Good Will Hunting?" Kev asks, wiping some non-existent spillage on the bartop with a red rag.

"Y'know that's just the film title, right? He's just Will Hunting."

Kev blinks at him. "I feel so informed now," he says, words dripping with sarcasm. "But seriously, everything's in check?"

Nodding, Lip takes another drink. "Yeah, man. I mean I don't understand why you don't just let me show you how to do them or Google it - you do know what Google is, don't you?" Lip simply grins when Kev flips him off. "It's pretty simple once you know."

"Yeah, but Kev didn't know circle doesn't start with an 's' until a few years ago." Vee walks up behind Lip, Alyssa in her arms and hands her over to Lip when she begins to squirm. "Simple to you ain't so simple to him."

Lip hides his smirk behind Alyssa's face and continues to pull stupid faces at her as Kev and Vee talk. One of her hands reaches into his hair and lightly tugs; she's endlessly amused by it and it isn't so annoying that Lip can't continue to fill out the tax form.

That is until Vee mentions something to do with a meth head and Lip's thoughts fly back to a few days ago, back to Mandy's brother and what he said. Because who the fuck knew that meth could be worth so much? Not even well-made product; Mickey explained his cooking process and Lip was amazed that he hadn't blown himself up or something.

He'd tried to not show too much interest as he asked questions. Curious but not desperate for information. Still, he did some research which was easy enough and some of the facts he knew already thanks to his chemistry class. He got to the point where he kind of couldn't stop; rifling through his college books, typing questions into various search engines when he couldn't find the answers on pages until Mandy called him a nerd and pulled him into the bedroom.

He's not exactly considering it. Not - well, not _really_. He's dealt a little before, just weed to some people at college who heard he's from the South Side and had their assumptions confirmed. Dealing meth is a whole other thing, as is actually fucking making it. If he got caught... But it's the money. The honestly insane amount he could earn from it, could share with his family so that they could breathe a little easier, go to bed at night with one less worry whirling through their minds. He could be the one to do that for them. _Should_ be the one to do that for them.

And not as some genius scientist in a few years time like everyone expects; his family's shitty circumstances can't be put on hold until he has more bits of paper proving he's just as smart as he says. They need it now. Need it so that in five months when Fiona's baby is born it can have a decent start in life. Need it so that Debbie can quit looking after so many kids and focus on having a social life, on school work; so that Carl's meds and his therapy sessions can be taken care of without causing him to wear that guilty downturn of the lips. Just - just so that they don't have to fucking struggle every single day.

Need it so that they can live.

And he thinks that's possibly reason enough. People do a lot worse for a lot less.

...

Fiona has him stay to have dinner with them. The place still looks the same and he doesn't know why it always surprises him, only that it does.

She told him that Carl isn't having a great week: trouble at school and something to do with his new meds not suiting him well. The sight of him lying on the couch, eyes fixed on the tv screen yet seeming to be looking straight through it still gets to him, though. Makes his chest physically hurt with the need to make it better. One of them was bound to get bipolar, Lip just didn't anticipate how much it'd kill him to see how it affects someone he's always been able to protect from harm.

He closes the door behind him slowly, walks up to Carl and crouches right in front of his face. Carl startles a bit, blinks and looks around as if just waking up.

"Dude, why're you so close?" he asks, frowning.

Lip can't help his smile. "Checking you were still in there somewhere." He places his hands on his knees and stands upright. "Move over, lemme put something decent on, something other than Project Runway." Lip snorts at how Carl's head whips around to look at the screen as a woman twirls around in some feathery disaster. "That is unless you were using it as a prelude to you telling me," he raises his eyebrows, "y'know."

Carl's entire face screws up. "Pre- huh?" and then it clicks and he punches Lip's arm. "Fuck off, you got the wrong brother, idiot."

From the kitchen, Fiona yells, "Language!"

...

Tony was at dinner. He sat across from Lip, next to Fiona and talked about the recent raid he lead. The one at Mickey's place. He talked about the guy they found there, Adam.

Lip had been abnormally quiet, soaking all of it in; the amount of money taken, how much the meth they took was worth. Turns out Mickey had underestimated.

He's still thinking about it the next night. Eating the pizza Mandy picked up on her way home, too distracted to not get melted cheese all over everything. An explosion on the tv shakes him out of his thoughts long enough for him to notice Mandy staring at him.

He looks down at his lap, wiping his mouth clean. "What?" he asks.

She shrugs and shakes her head. Brings the pizza to her mouth then pauses. Says, "Everything alright?" just as Lip thinks she's going to move on.

"Yeah, why?"

It's clear she knows he's lying, can read him just as well as he reads her. "Seem sorta... I don't know, just weird. Quiet."

"Well you call me a caveman when I speak with my mouthful," he says, smiling at her, hoping she either believes him or realises he doesn't want to talk about it.

Her smile is sad, resigned even. Great, she probably thinks he's fucking someone behind her back. But they're both experts at faking it. Faking hatred and love, knowing just what to say to make the other lose it completely but also what to say so that they forgive just as quickly as they began to hate.

So Mandy smiles again, more natural this time, but not natural enough to be genuine, and says, "Finally learning, huh?"

The rest of the night slowly ticks by; tense second after tense second.

**OOO**

Despite what a lot of people think, dealing isn't easy. You can't just make product, go out on the streets and sell. There are fucking rules you have to follow, certain things only certain people can do. In that sense, it's like any other job. Kiss the asses of those above you and you get a shitload more money. What makes it different, though, is that if you piss off the higher ups they might stick a bullet between your eyes.

The door to the house pushes open when Mickey's knuckles tap against it. He pauses, concerned for a moment until he hears the dog barking and Stan talking to it, fucking cooing like a baby.

Mickey walks in. "'Ey, man," he says, leaves the door open and doesn't step any closer. He's not scared of dogs but he can fucking see how big this one's teeth are from a dozen feet away.

Letting go of the toy he was wrestling from the dog's mouth, Stan stands upright to his full height. The silver cross he wears around his neck sends rays of reflections dancing along the bare walls. "Why're you here, huh?"

"Y'know what happened with Adam, right?"

Stan nods, face giving away no emotion. Mickey wonders if he's capable of feeling them.

"Well, uh," he takes a step to the side, shrugging and putting his hands in his pockets, "just came by to find out what our next move is. Like, d'you have someone else I can cook with? Want me to do it on my ow-"

"I don't give a fuck what you do but you get me my money." Stan begins walking towards him. Slow, measured steps to intimidate. And sure, Stan is a big guy, bigger than Mickey and more muscle than anything else, but all Mickey can focus on is not laughing; Stan's shoes make it sound like he's wearing fucking stilettos. "By the weekend."

He doesn't have to try so hard not to laugh now. "The fuck, man? It's Thursday, how'd you expect-"

Stan holds up a hand, eyes closing. "Like I said: I don't give a fuck what you do but you get me my money." His icy blue eyes open and linger on Mickey's for a long time and then he blinks and huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. "Now get outta here," he pats Mickey's arm so hard that he has to take a step to stay balanced but that smile is still there.

Without another word Mickey's making for the door, heart fucking pounding in his chest.

...

James, Gappy and Tyrone come over when gets home. Lounge about on his sofa and beanbag chairs, their sneakers kicked off and scattered around, getting right in Mickey's way as he paces, smoking his third cigarette in a row.

"Couldn't you just-" James blows out a thick cloud of smoke "-get a loan or something? Ask someone for it?"

Mickey pauses and squints at him in disbelief. "Right, just fuckin' walk up to someone and go, what, 'hey can I borrow fifteen fuckin' thousand dollars?' Yeah, I'll go right ahead and do that."

With a flap of his hand that has Gappy rolling his eyes, James throws half of his body over the arm of the couch, looking up at Mickey from under his eyelashes. (Mickey absolutely fucking does not get images of the times James has sucked him off flashing through his mind.) "Never know, ask someone who likes you." He reaches out and taps Mickey's thigh.

The only people who honestly like Mickey are sat in this room. On a good day he could include Mandy in that group, maybe his uncle Tommy and that's it. He'd bet everything he has that not a single one of them would loan him the money.

His face must say just that because Gappy pokes his tongue through the gap where his bottom left canine should be then says, "Come on, man, just take a seat, smoke a bowl. You still got a few days."

Mickey chews on his bottom lip. Getting high sounds like a great fucking plan right now. He drops down beside Tyrone and accepts the pipe he hands him.

...

All of Friday is spent selling every ounce of weed he has. He hangs out by the high school near his place, deals to a couple kids who can't be older than fourteen and don't know he's overcharging them. James offers to sell the handful of baggies of blow he has to his hooker buddies.

By 3am he's made $200.

"Well it's a start," James says, rifling through Mickey's fridge like he fucking lives here.

"Bitch, get the fuck outta there!" he shouts at him. Grumbles under his breath, "Eatin' my shit, cheap bastard."

James sits beside him with a fucking tub of ice cream that Mickey had no idea he had. Trust him to be the one to find it.

"You shouldn't frown so much, you'll get wrinkles."

Taking a deep breath, Mickey turns up the volume on the tv. He has fuck all to smile about at the moment. He's gonna be dead in a couple days, alright? Stan isn't the kinda guy who gives you an extra 48 hours, he isn't rational or logical. Money is all that matters to him, money to buy his stupid fucking gold rings and his ugly-ass suits.

There is literally nothing he can do. Nothing.

"Hey, come on." James' lips feel cold on his neck, cause an involuntary shiver to run up his spine.

Mickey tilts his head away to look down at him. "What?"

"What?" James gives him his innocent eyes. The eyes he uses to get out of anything and everything, make him look like a goddamn angel paired with his blonde hair. "I'm horny," he says.

"You're a fuckin' hooker."

"Yeah but no-one I fuck is actually hot." He slides onto Mickey's lap, hands pushing Mickey's hair back. "And you're a friend and why do we have this conversation before every time we fuck?' He stands, opening the button on his skinny jeans. "Come fuck me and distract yourself from your impending doom."

...

Someone has a death wish. Someone is knocking over and over on his door and clearly wants Mickey to beat the shit out of them. He rolls out from under James, checks his phone to see that it's 10:12 in the morning. Jesus fuck.

He groans, rubbing his hands down his face. His boxers are beside the bed and he pulls them on. Backwards but fuck it. He throws on a t-shirt he's about 93% sure has come on and heads down the stairs, wincing at how freezing the wood flooring is beneath his feet.

Swinging the front door open, he's ready to curse up a storm at the fucker on the other side.

The fucker turns out to be Lip.

"Uh.. yeah?" Mickey says, a million questions on his tongue.

"Hey, man, you busy?"

Mickey thinks about James in his bed, the state the living room is in. "I, y'know, kinda got some things goin' on."

Lip nods, puts his hand to his mouth and quietly says something. Mickey thinks it was 'fuck'.

The sun feels like it's burning his eyes but Mickey steps outside properly. "You good, man?"

"Can you still cook?" Lip blurts out.

"Ye- yeah, I can."

Lip nods again. "I wanna cook with you."

Honest to god, Mickey gapes a little. "You-"

"Want to cook with you." He steps closer and Mickey steps back. "Listen I know it sounds fucking crazy but I need money, alright?"

"And you think cooking meth is the best way to do that?" Mickey snorts. "Ain't you gonna be some scientists or some shit? With the lasers and whatever?"

"In a matter of years. I need money now. My family are-" A shaky breath rattles from his mouth and he turns away from Mickey, looking like he's about to leave but then stops. Just stops beside Mickey's car and breathes for a while. "I can get you equipment. Good shit. And the chemicals and I know what I'm doing," he faces Mickey and shrugs, "that's my offer, consider it."

And then he's walking away, down the street, shoulders hunched and Mickey doesn't know what the fuck to think. Jumps when James asks him why he's standing outside.

Mickey walks back into the living room, kicking the front door closed behind him. He rests his weight back against it.

"I have no fucking idea," he says.

* * *

**okay so I feel like I should mention that this won't follow the Breaking Bad timeline and that it'll end up being quite different to the show but yeah.**

**also college starts up again tomorrow so I'm gonna be busier thus I'll have less time to write but I'll be trying my best not to leave it too long.**


	3. Chapter 3

Out where they deliver cargoes, they know Lip. Know him well enough that they trust him. Know him well enough that they don't ask questions when he asks if he can use one of the empty containers nobody ever bothers checking. Not to mention how loud it is, how it smells like oil and the sea, masking any other scents.

It's pretty fucking perfect. Mickey doesn't agree.

"We got people comin' in and out, droppin' shit off-"

"We're nowhere near where they do that. And we're well hidden and no-one ever comes out this far, alright?" He's repeating what he said on the drive over here and he rolls his eyes at the nervous way Mickey looks around, like he's expecting a cop to turn up right this second. "This is, like, where the illegals get dropped off, as if they're gonna point anyone in this direction. Relax, dude."

Mickey sniffs, wipes the back of his hand across his nose. He clearly doesn't like this plan, has expressed that several times in various ways. Lip's told him that he can still say 'no', that he isn't bound by some sort of contract. Yet Mickey's still here.

"Just - how'd you know you can trust 'em?"

"Some guy I know, he worked with them, selling stolen cars." He neglects to mention that it was his sister's ex, that he left five months ago and for all Lip knows could be dead. "Trust me; they won't say shit."

Mickey still looks doubtful but he doesn't say anything else; Lip's interpreting his silence as "thanks, man, this is a fucking awesome idea".

He gives Mickey's arm a tap and heads back to the car. There are several boxes on the backseat and in the trunk containing lab equipment Lip was able to steal. Most of it was simple enough; slipping beakers and measuring jars into his bag without anyone seeing, paying some of the real nerdy dudes for the bigger things.

One of the immigrants who works on the cargo ships knows a guy who knows a guy who was able to get them all of the chemicals they needed, not to mention Mickey had some left over and hidden.

They're good to go if only Mickey would just move and help him with the boxes.

"Gonna stand there and just watch?"

Mickey removes his thumb from his mouth, spits out the bit of nail he chewed off. Fucking charmer. "I can't get fucking arrested, okay?" he says, the most serious Lip's ever heard him speak, his eyes wide. "I can't."

It sounds dangerous, why Mickey can't get thrown back inside. Lip knows he's served a few stints so it can't be just because it's prison. He decides not to ask. "And if we're careful we won't." He drops the box he's carrying inside the container and shrugs. "Come on, let's cook."

...

Two days later, Mickey shows up at his and Mandy's place with one hell of a fucking shiner.

"Jesus," Lip says, opening the door wider. He notices the limp in Mickey's walk, how he's hunched over slightly. He's betting his ribs look just as bad as his face. "What happened?"

Hissing in pain, Mickey lowers himself down on the couch, toes his sneakers off. "Guy I work for wants his money," he explains, cigarette perched between his lips. He lights it and looks dejectedly at the messy floor. "I'm a few days late."

"The money taken in the raid?" Lip sits on the arm of the couch, one foot on the floor, the other on the seat cushion.

Exhaling smoke, Mickey nods.

"Have you told him you're still cooking?"

Mickey nods again.

Though he has nowhere near the amount of experience in the world of drug dealing as Mickey, Lip is still as smart as he is aware of it. "We could make a deal."

Frowning, Mickey asks, "Like what?"

"Like, uh, if he gives you a few more days, a week, then we give him x amount of product. We can give him a taster, some of the stuff we already made."

Mickey pulls a face, like he doesn't want to admit that it's a good plan but still thinks that it is. "Yeah, but y'know once we start workin' for the son of a bitch, that's it?" Mickey raises his eyebrows, smoke flowing from his nostrils. "You get that, right? Stan ain't into one-off deals; you make him money once and you're his."

Which Lip gets. He knows you can't simply make product and go selling it wherever. He knows there are rules and that people have their own territories. And maybe Stan seems a little violent but as far as Lip understands there's no reason for things to get bloody.

"I'm in, man," he says, "and this way you won't start-up a collection of those," he gestures at Mickey's bruise and smirks.

Collapsing back against the couch with a grunt, Mickey flips him off, his cigarette back between his lips. And only now does Lip notice the tiny scab you get from a split lip, the barely visible, faded bruising on Mickey's jaw and cheek; already part of a collection.

...

Stan's place is fucking ridiculous. Legitimately the most extravagant shithole Lip's ever set foot in. He looks away from the blank white walls and down at the zebra print carpet that covers the entirety of the floors.

They're in Stan's "office", standing on one side of a large, glass table whilst Stan sits on the other, hands clasped under his chin. Lip's surprised he hasn't got a cat in his lap. He's starting to think that Mickey is more of a pussy than he originally thought because he can't find a single thing to be scared of.

"My boy says you have product. New shit."

Smirking in a way even Lip can tell is all fake bravado, Mickey holds up the green backpack. "Fuckin' 89%."

From the corner of his eye, Lip sees the two - what, bodyguards? - that led them to the room share an impressed look, smiles spread across their fat faces.

"89, huh?" Stan asks, facial expression changing for the first since they walked in as Mickey nods. He grins, exclaims, "Well gimme a taster," and rubs his hands together; Lip hopes the move is sarcastic but thinks it's genuine.

Mickey gives him a teenth and Stan's eyes it up before he asks, "Blue? Why's it blue?"

"Chemicals and science bullshit," Mickey answers before Lip can, "just try it, man."

Stan crushes the meth into a powdery lump of blue, puts a finger to one nostrils and snorts a line with the other. A sharp cough and three big blinks later and Stan is biting his lip on a smile. His hands drum against the table until, finally, he speaks.

"Fuck, boy," he exhales, addressing Lip, "you can cook, huh?"

Lip shrugs because yes, he can, and they both know it.

Visibly, Mickey is far less tense. He takes off his black fingerless gloves and steps, minutely, closer to the table. "So we were thinkin'," he starts, glances at Lip for a split-second then back at Stan, "that we could make a deal."

Underneath the glass Stan's legs jiggle about. "What kind?"

Mickey wrings his hands, answers, "We cook for you and you can charge more because this shit is like... y'know? So yeah, uh, we cook for you and you keep a percentage of the money made and we're even?"

Something in Stan changes. He slowly rises from his sleek leather chair; Mickey flinches, a tiny bit but Lip sees it. As Stan walks to the other side of the table, Mickey steps back and an air of unease sits obtrusively in the room. Lip doesn't have a fucking clue what to expect next.

Stan eyes them. Scrutinises. It sets Lip on edge.

Then Stan smiles, so wide that his gold molar shows. It doesn't actually make Lip feel any better and he keeps his eyes focussed on one of the cuffs of Stan's blue shirt.

"Good, good," Stan mutters, hauling Mickey in with a hand on the back of his neck. "You smart, kid, knew you could live up to your name." He rubs a hand over Mickey's head, a move that looks almost loving and leaves Mickey's hair a ruffled mess.

Lip thinks it's time to stop with the sentimentality and talk numbers. They are, after all, here to do buisness.

"So," he starts, breaking the silence, "how much of a percentage are we talking here? 20/80?"

Behind him, the two men snicker and Lip looks at them and frowns. Turns back to Stan right up in his face, Mickey stood by a filing cabinet chewing on his bottom lip.

Stan's huff of breath brushes against Lip's cheek. "Do I look stupid to you? Huh? Do I look like some stupid bastard who let's themselves get robbed?"

Lip says, "I don't think I know you well enough to answer that question the way you want me to," and promptly gets punched in the stomach. He doubles over and grunts. "What the fuck?!"

He hears Mickey's, "Yo, Stan, c'mon," but the harsh tug on his hair becomes the only thing he can focus on.

"You got a mouth on you, maybe you should do something about that," Stan says, hushed, crouched down so his face is level with Lip's. "I take 35%."

"I don't care much for self-control and you can get fuck-"

A hit to the face silences him. He feels liquid run over his top lip, heat blooming across his nose and cheeks before he's on his back, Stan straddling him. His fist connects with Lip's nose again and then his cheek and though he tries, Lip can't get a solid hold on the stupid fucking shirt Stan is wearing; the man is simply too fast.

One final hit. Stan wipes the sweat from his bald head and chuckles. He clicks his fingers and Lip is able to crane his neck in time to see Tweedledum and Tweedledee release Mickey from their hold. He comes over to Lip, waits for Stan to stand and then helps him up.

"You cook me two-hundred pounds a week and I get 35%," he gestures towards the entire room with his eyebrows raised, "any problems?"

Lip wipes some of the blood from his nose and grunts.

...

Mandy freaks the fuck out when she sees him. Eyes wide and alert, she rushes over to him, her magazine dropping to the carpet. His feet are barely through the front door.

"Holy shit, what happened?! Are you okay?"

Her hands are icy cold, cradling his cheeks, and he winces. "I'm fine," he says, making his way over to the couch.

A crease forms between Mandy's eyebrows as she takes stock of every bit of blood and every bruise littering his face. Lip wishes she'd stop staring.

He repeats, "I'm fine," reassures her that it looks worse than it is. At least that is mostly true. On the drive home Lip checked out the damage in the mirror of Mickey's car. Flecks of dried blood fell to his lap when he rubbed his nose but it didn't hurt nearly as much as he thought it would. And okay, so pain made his vision go funny when he prodded at his bruised eye but he's not so bad.

"I'm gonna get a cloth," Mandy says, "clean you up."

Lip nods and she leaves. He waits for the familiar sound of the pipes quietly groaning then running water before he loudly sighs, and slips his eyes shut. Today did not go as planned.

Mandy comes back with antiseptic wipes, a little jug of water and a cloth. She kneels between his parted legs, moves the magazine out of her way. Guilt sits heavily inside of Lip; Mandy's shaken up and knows that he won't tell her what honestly happened. Lip isn't surprised that she stays silent as she tentatively cleans his face, the jug of water slowly turning the colour of rust.

**OOO**

Cooking with Lip turned out to be weirder than Mickey originally predicted. For starters, he cooked fucking topless, even after Mickey listed every reason why he shouldn't. Including not wanting to see his fucking nipples at eleven in the damn morning. He also had all these shitty rules like "we have to wear these masks and these gloves" and "no, I pour that" and "no fucking eating in here, jesus!" when Mickey popped open the Pringles he brought with him. Right, like he was gonna accidentally drop a whole fucking Pringle into the mix.

Mickey rolls his eyes at the memory. It seems like the light changes from red to green in an instant. The exact opposite of what he needs right now. The longer it takes to get to Stan's, the longer his face remains mainly clear. Because he basically has fuck all to give the man.

It's Tuesday, so he's already late, but he was desperately trying to make money. He sold a load of his old shit to friends and friends of friends; old computer games, a tv and stereo he never even knew he had that were in the garage.

He only has $1115.

As slow as possible, Mickey parks across the street from Stan's house then sits for a moment. He's no pussy or some shit, it's just that Stan is literally crazy, a fucking animal. One minute he's laughing and calling Mickey 'kid' or 'boy' and the next he's laying into him with his knuckledusters. His wariness, Mickey thinks, is completely justified.

There's a knock at his window. Outside, Thomas, one of Stan's guards (who Mickey calls Jeeves in his head) has his arms crossed, an eyebrow expectantly high on his head.

Mickey nods and gets out. Is lead through Stan's house and into his office.

He's wearing a disgusting burgundy sports jacket, his silver cross contrasting against his black shirt. Finger crooked, he beckons Mickey closer and, as soon as Mickey is in reaching distance, Stan strikes him across the face.

Mickey's head whips to the side with the force of it. No time to just fucking acknowledge what just happened, his legs are kicked and he falls to the ground. Stan's feet kick and stomp at his torso and Mickey, distantly, wishes he'd paid more attention in biology because he needs to know if organs can actually explode.

As soon as Stan stops, Mickey wheezes, sucks in desperate lungfuls of air. Thank fuck, he thinks, the bastard wasn't wearing his steel-toed boots. The punches to his face he's expecting; he protects his head as best he can and kind of just lets it happen. He learnt the real fucking hard way what fighting back would cost him.

He lays spread eagle on the carpet when Stan is finally done.

"I don't wanna kill you, kid," he says, voice soft, giving Mickey a hand standing up before roughly shoving him against the wall, "but you don't get me my money and what other choice do I got, huh?"

...

Mickey knew seeing Stan with Lip was gonna be a bad idea. He'd argued that he should go alone, sort out everything and then come back and then the next time Lip could come, too, but no. And now Lip is sat, silent, in Mickey's car, flipping down the mirror every two fucking seconds to look at his face.

It's pretty fucked up. Mickey tells him so.

"Thanks for the thorough assessment," Lip says, flipping the mirror back up with way too much force.

The guy's been silent the whole ride, only speaks when Mickey speaks to him directly and not the asshole drivers who take an hour to move a fucking inch. Obviously today went to shit but it could've gone fine if Lip had shut the fuck up and accepted the deal. Even if it isn't that good of one.

Mickey glances to his side, gets a look at Lip, his chin resting on his fist, staring outside. Though he doesn't know the intimate details of why Lip's doing this, he knows it's for family and Mandy's told him enough that he knows family is everything to a Gallagher.

That's why Mickey finally voices the thoughts that have been swirling around inside his head:

"We could always sell some ourselves. On the side, I mean. Cook a little more than Stan asked for and sell it ourselves."

Lip looks at him, eyes flicking between Mickey's over and over until he finally says, "Would that work? Could we do it without him finding out?"

Mickey scoffs. "Fuck yeah, man. Me and Adam used to do it all the. I got people that can sell and you could sell to college kids or whatever," he explains. A few moments of silence pass wherein Lip is clearly having a hard time deciding what to do. He brings his hand to his mouth, muttering. "You don't have to," Mickey says because he isn't about to fucking force the guy.

"No, no, I'm in, just trying to work out how how much extra we can make."

With that, Mickey grins.

...

Lip is pretty busy for the rest of the week, college shit taking up a load of his time. They manage to cook 115 pounds on Thursday and another 105 on Saturday morning, though, the most Mickey's ever cooked.

For the third time in a row, he weighs the fifteen pounds he's got to sell on the mini scale on his coffee table, just to check. _15lbs_ comes up in red writing and Mickey quietly sighs, sinks further into the beanbag.

"Yo, Mickey, we gonna smoke some of that some time this century?" Tyrone asks as he ties up his dreads.

Mickey looks up at three pairs of eager eyes watching him. He hurriedly puts the meth away. "This is to fuckin' sell," he says, slowly because he fucking means it. "I find out any of you smoke some of this-"

"By that you mean James seein' as he the only who gets invited to your sleepovers," Tyrone interrupts. He laughs along with Gappy and they do their weird little handshake.

Internally, Mickey screams and fucking curses the day he was high enough to accept a hummer from James at a party. Without locking the bathroom door. At least he didn't get killed. Though sometimes he thinks that'd be better than having Ty and Gappy making dumbass jokes.

James slaps Ty's arm. "Just 'cause your jealous," he says, pretending to flick fake hair over his shoulder.

Tyrone snorts, puts on a falsetto voice when he says, "Oh yes, please, Mickey, fuck me up the ass and-"

"Alright enough!" Mickey shouts over the three of them laughing. James is a fucking traitor. "This shit isn't to smoke, I'm cookin' and sellin' for Stan again."

"Shit, seriously?" Gappy asks, the red drawstring of his hoodie falling from his mouth, all spit-slick. "Even after," he waves hand in front of his face, "y'know."

"It's to make up for the money that got taken in the raid. So smoke some weed, do a couple lines of blow, but don't touch the fuckin' crystal, 'kay?"

All three of them mumble their agreements and Mickey nods, gets up to go to the kitchen. Of course James follows him.

"So you're sellin that on the side, right?" He bends over to get a saucepan out of the cupboard. His stupid fucking tight t-shirt rides up, reveals his back dimples and his bright orange underwear. Mickey rolls his eyes at the sight and gets a beer.

"Yeah, but keep your fuckin' mouth shut."

James mimes zipping his lips. "Need a hand?" he asks, smirking because he fucking knows the answer.

"Get your hooker buddies to sell for me, like before."

James nods, pours water into the pan. "Of course. Then again most of them will probably buy for themselves because oh my _god_, they get some crusty looking oldies wanting to buy them for the night."

Mickey both snorts and grimaces. "What, and you don't?"

Pack of spaghetti in hand, James twirls around, free hand on his hip. "Babe, do I look like I let pentioners put their liver-spotted hands on me?"

Mickey stares blankly at him before walking back into the living room.

...

That evening Mickey drives himself and James to go see his pimp to get the all clear on selling.

She's a woman, maybe around forty, who looks a lot like a hooker herself with about fifty prostitutes that work for her, guys and girls. Goes by the name Dom and nicknames her workers "my little subs".

She crushes Mickey with a hug. The scent of her perfume stings his nostrils but he hugs her back.

Throughout the entire conversation she keeps a skinny arm around his shoulders, every now and then fucking stroking the back of his neck. Each time it makes him shiver and each time he does she smirks at him. Right, yeah, like Mickey's getting turned on by this shit instead of freaked out.

Dom agrees to the deal. Mickey had no doubt she would; woman is like perpetually stoned or some shit. Either that or she's the most chilled out, accepting woman Mickey's ever met.

"Don't be a stranger, now, honey," she says from the entrance to her bar a few buildings down from James' corner. Her red hair blows in the wind and she winks at him.

Several safe steps away, James says, "Could you just fuck her? Please? She speaks about you so much it makes me want to stab things."

Mickey ignores him and instead greets a small group of James' hooker buddies ("They're work colleagues, Mickey, fuck you!"). He knows only two by name - Evan and Ollie - so let's James do the talking. Rambling, more like it.

"Okay boys, now y'know Mickey cooks, right?" He doesn't give them a chance to answer before he carries on. "Well he's cooking again and wants to sell. Now this product is 90%, which is actually pretty spectacular, I mean considering-"

"The point, James," one of them sighs, folding his bare pale arms. Guy must be freezing his balls off.

James rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I was getting to it. Basically Mickey wants you guys to sell for him. He has quarters, teenths and 8-balls, so if you guys want some for yourselves get out your wallets, if not open up your hands."

A couple, including Ollie, buy a quarter each and also take more to sell, as do the others. The great thing about these guys is that they never get a percentage of the money made; Dom doesn't allow it.

It's a fucking sweet deal and by the time Mickey's discussed prices, he's already made $80 from the quarters sold. Not a lot but it's still something.

He's having a smoke, waiting for James to get done gossiping when his name is called.

His head shoots up and walking towards him is Lip's brother, the one that tortured Mickey by walking around fucking topless that one morning.

Mickey nods. "Hey," he says, "what you doin' 'round here?"

Ian stuffs his hands into his pockets and tilts his head backwards. "I work here." Taking in Mickey's look of shock he laughs and explains, "Not _here_ here, at Roxxxy's, the strip club. Bartender."

"Ah, right."

"What about you?"

Mickey bites his lip, looks over at James gesturing wildly. "Waitin' for that dick," he says, sounding way more fond than he'd like.

"You know James?" Ian asks, the beginnings of another smile starting at the corners of his mouth.

Mickey frowns because, "Yeah, I know him, old friend. How'd you know him?"

Hand at the back of his head, Ian chuckles and in the dim light it looks like he's blushing. "He, uh, flirts with me pretty aggressively every time I see him. That kinda makes people close, I guess?" Ian huffs out another nervous laugh. "I dunno, he's cool."

"Who's cool?" James asks, appearing by Ian's side like he teleported there. Fucking ninja.

"Well obviously not you," Ian jokes and it makes Mickey's stomach feel weird, how the two of them tease each other. He's not sure who he's jealous of, fears it may be James.

He stamps down on his half-smoked cigarette. Gruffly says, "Let's get outta here."

James looks at him funny but gets in the car after a quick goodbye to Ian.

Mickey says nothing to him, spends the drive silent and drops James off at his apartment.


	4. Chapter 4

"Where you off to?"

Lip spins around, bashes his elbow against the doorframe. "Fuck, Mandy," he sighs, "scared the shit out of me."

Her face remains blank. "Really? Was it my sneaking around?" she says pointedly.

Lip had the gall to believe he was being careful. Besides, today is the first time he and Mickey have been able to cook in the last five days so he hasn't even had to sneak around much recently. Clearly Mandy isn't as dense as he once thought.

"Look," he starts, but Mandy stops him right there:

"No, you fucking look. Is it that fucking skank again? Karen?"

It takes an extreme amount of effort for Lip not to roll his eyes. "No," he says, "and why the fuck does it always come back to Karen?"

Mandy steps a little closer. "You tell me," she says, lips turned up like how a caged animal snarls as observing tourists slowly rile it up. Except Lip hasn't even done anything; it's Mandy who's started this bullshit argument based off her own insecurities. Christ, it's always her who starts this shit about Karen. Something she simply can't let go of, move on from.

Lip doesn't stop his eyes from rolling now. "I'm not cheating on you, I'm not doing anything but seeing a friend from college, alright?" He bends his neck a little so he can look into her eyes. Yeah, he's lying but not about the cheating. And he can't tell her about the meth, not now at least: Mandy's still too pleased about them being mostly law-abiding citizens. "Alright?" he repeats, lower and softer this time, creeping forward.

She stares into his eyes for a long time and Lip holds her gaze until a small smile begins to form on her face. "Alright," she says, allowing him to put his hands to her hips and kiss her.

"I'll be back in a few hours," he whispers into her mouth. Pulls away in time to see her nod, puts on his denim jacket and walks out of the door.

...

Something is off with Mickey. His usual smart-ass sarcastic remarks to nearly everything Lip says replaced with non-committal grunts and "yeah, whatever"s. It's strange and unsettling and Lip finds himself actually wishing Mickey would go back to his aggressive, annoying self.

He puts down the beaker in his hand and faces Mickey who's sat on an empty barrel in the dark corner, phone in hand. "You're quiet today," he says, a hint of accusation in his voice.

A shrug. That's all Lip gets by way of an answer: a fucking shrug.

"PMS?"

Mickey looks up at him, glaring, but otherwise doesn't reply. Something is seriously off with Mickey.

...

They took Lip's car today, seem to have made an unspoken agreement that they'll take it in turns. He follows Mickey's instructions until he pulls up to a house he's still surprised Mickey inhabits.

His face must give away his thoughts because Mickey explains, "My uncle Tommy got me this place; his half-sister left it to him in her will or some shit," as he lights his cigarette.

Lip nods. "Pretty good deal."

Mickey snorts. "What, one house in exchange for one death?"

"Depends. Was she old?"

Mickey actually cracks a smile at that. Shakes his head and opens the car door. Once he's out he leans in through the open window, cigarette smoke drifting inside. "Still cookin' on Sunday?" he asks.

Lip palms the back of his neck; straight after she sucked his brains out of his dick, Mandy asked him to go to a friends' party with her and in his post-orgasmic bliss, he said yes. He can't exactly relay that to Mickey. "Uh, yeah, man. Though maybe a little earlier than we said?"

Though he sighs, annoyed, Mickey says, "Whatever, just text me," and walks away.

Making a U-turn, Lip begins to drive away, joins the early afternoon traffic.

He's sat waiting for the lights to change when his phone begins to ring. He reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls it out.

"Hello?" he answers, not bothering to check the caller ID.

"Hey," comes Fiona's voice, "how you doin'?"

Lip smiles; she starts every phone conversation this way. "I'm good, you?" The light turns green; Lip quickly puts Fiona on loud-speaker and the phone in his lap.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Busy tonight?"

Lip says, "Nah, I'm free."

"Come over for dinner, Tony's bringing back takeout." She adds, "And bring Mandy," like it's an afterthought; three years and Fiona still hasn't completely warmed up to Mandy. It's cool, though. He doesn't care about that anymore.

A car swerves in front of him from the lane to his left and Lip bibs his horn. Mutters, "Fucking idiot," before remembering he's in the middle of a conversation. "Yeah, yeah, we'll be there. Seven?"

"Seven sounds good," Fiona says, "See ya later."

"Yeah, bye."

...

Mandy raises a dubious eyebrow when Lip says, "So Fi wants us over for dinner tonight."

She pauses her washing up, soapy hands dripping water onto the floor. "We as in both of us? Like, you and me?" She huffs and picks up a plate, starts to scrub at it aggressively.

Lip sighs. "Yes. Me and you. Come on, you'll get to see everyone, see how Debbie's doin'." Mandy has a soft spot for her, always has done, almost adopting her as a younger sister for herself.

"Yeah, sure, whatever. So long as Carl's little pervert friend isn't there."

"He won't be. A hatred for Little Hank is something you and my sister actually share." He creeps up behind her, wraps his arms around her slim waist. It's no surprise she doesn't jump, like she's immune to such petty fear. Some hobo pulled a gun on them one night, demanding their money, and all Mandy did was scoff, say, "You think I don't know what a real gun looks like?" and then kneed him in the balls. Lip is pretty sure he'll never be as turned on as he was then.

...

Dinner with his family is just as chaotic as ever. Fighting over who gets what piece of fried chicken; Carl showing Debbie the chewed up food in his mouth; Debbie socking him on the arm in retaliation; Fiona trying to keep the peace and then giving up.

Lip and Ian sit side-by-side, watching on, amused. Mostly because while Fiona stopped playing peacemaker, Tony didn't. And being a DEA officer clearly doesn't mean shit when it comes to controlling rowdy teenagers.

Now with a drink, Mandy takes her seat at the head of the table again, to Lip's left. Her foot makes contact with his calf and he faces her.

"Think he knows he's wasting his breath?" she whispers, smirking.

Lip glances at Tony and his increasingly reddening face. "Nah," he answers, "plus I wanna see how long it takes for him to realise that they're purposely not listening to him so shouting louder is an act of futility."

Mandy snickers and takes a bite of her chicken wing.

...

He knows. He knows he isn't having a panic attack, but in the deep crevices of Lip's mind a fear begins to grow. Begins to make his heart pound impossibly harder, his palms to sweat like they're practically leaking.

Tony's a good cop. Not like he's the good cop to his partner's bad cop. As in he's fucking great at his job. Reasonable but strong-minded and driven. Could be why he managed to get a name from Adam:

Mickey Milkovich.

**OOO**

James and Gappy want a party. Understandable: their birthdays are two days apart, the day inbetween a Friday. And it's cool, whatever, but they want to have it at Mickey's place.

"Come on, your house is huge and everyone knows where it is! Plus your neighbors never call the cops!" James argues, following Mickey out of the kitchen and into the living room.

Mickey wants to hit him. Wants to not necessarily because of the party but because he keeps putting Mickey in situations where he and Ian fucking bump into each other. And that shit isn't good for his health. Ian is eighth on James' list of party guests.

"It's true, yo!" Ty calls from the kitchen as he heats up a Hot Pocket.

He looks between Jake and Gappy's faces, their pleading, hopeful eyes and groans. Falls back against the couch, resigned.

James jumps into his lap. Yells, "Fuck yes!" and bumps his fist against Gappy's.

Beyond done. Mickey is fucking beyond done. So much so that he lets James sit on his lap whilst he and Gappy play video games; says nothing when Ty calls him a "whipped motherfucker".

Fuck it, maybe he is.

...

Secrets are hard to keep. Especially your own. You wind up wanting to just fucking blurt everything out to the nearest person. Unload all your bullshit so that it's no longer only yours to carry around. People share secrets because it brings them closer to the people they share them with.

Mickey keeps them to himself. Always.

But when Lip pesters him, he wants to explain. Say, "Y'know your brother? I kinda want him to fuck me and then hang out with me. Oh yeah, and I'm a faggot."

Words stay trapped in his mouth, though. Locked in by shame and an instinctual fear that anyone who knows will want to kill him.

So he stays quiet and he does what Lip asks of him: puts the pseudoephedrine, iodine and red phosphorus in the boiling flask with water; watches on as Lip heats it. He works on autopilot after that. Lifting things, passing things, stepping outside to eat.

He feels like shit. All because of some fucking guy which makes it even worse. Mickey doesn't do feelings and romance and all that faggy stuff, alright? Sex is what he does. Fucking.

And it'd be fine if he only wanted that from Ian but no, of course he actually likes the guy. Fucking James and his inability to leave Mickey out of conversations. Dragging him along to talk with Ian and then leaving when johns pull up. Leaving him alone with Ian to go hang out at Dom's bar, shooting the shit until ass o'clock in the morning.

Turns out Ian is a dumbass drunk, one Mickey had to practically carry home last night he was so wasted. Ian also snores real lightly in his sleep. These little snuffling noises.

Fuck, Mickey seriously hopes he's gone by the time he gets back.

...

He is not gone when Mickey gets back.

It's coming up to one in the afternoon; they got in at four.

Mickey lets the front door close behind him and sighs heavenward. Fuck his life, man, seriously. But, hey, at least Ian's still fully clothed, right? Small fucking victories.

He toes his boots off and unzips his navy hoodie, fingerless gloves shoved into his pockets. The house is warm; Ian's cheeks are flushed a little.

And Mickey doesn't know what he's supposed to do. If he keeps staring at the guy then he's gonna have to fucking slap himself for being so gross; if he wakes him he'll feel like a dick; but he can't pretend to go about life normally with Ian asleep on his couch.

Luckily, Ian begins to make noise like he's waking up by himself. Does this nuzzle thing into the cushion and stretches out, all lean muscles and shit.

Mickey wants to scream but instead he puts on the tv. Fucking Housewives of Orange County comes on (Ty needs to stop getting his hands on the remote) and Mickey turns it up. Hopes the whiny voices are enough to have Ian up.

With a loud yawn and one final stretch, Ian eventually sits up, squinted eyes adjusting to the light.

"Hey," he croaks.

Mickey nods. "Want some breakfast or whatever?" he asks, motioning to the kitchen. God, he feels like a fucking idiot.

"Just a coffee, thanks." He gets up to follow Mickey then leans back against the counter next to the oven. "My mouth tastes like ass," he complains and Mickey smirks at his grimace.

"Not fuckin' surprised. The shit you drank, man." He only has that crappy instant coffee because he hates the stuff and Ty actually brings his coffee machine over when he's on a caffeine fix. There's no need for anything fancier. Mickey holds it up and Ian nods, looks thankful for it regardless.

The two of them turn quiet whilst they wait for the kettle to boil. Mickey avoids looking at Ian but can feel Ian staring. It's several seconds later when he asks, "What?" nervously rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip.

Ian smiles. Kinda bashful looking; eyes set on the floor, palm at the back of his neck. "Nothing," he says, glancing back up at Mickey then away again, "nah, it's nothing."

"Alright, freak," Mickey mutters on his way past him to the fridge.

Shoving Mickey's shoulder, Ian laughs, says, "Fuck off and make me my coffee," and that's when there's a knock at the door.

Mickey hands him the milk. Smirks and says, "Do it yourself, bitch." Narrowly avoids a punch and heads for the door.

He wishes he'd pretended to not be at home.

"Morning, Mickey," none other than Tony fucking Markovich says, all angelic smiles like he isn't the biggest asshole to grace the Earth.

"Yeah, what?"

Tony smiles wider. "We need to take you in for some questioning."

"What?"

Impossibly, Tony smiles even wider, bright white teeth practically glinting. Christ, just give the guy a halo and some fucking wings. "A buddy of yours, Adam O'Riley, seems to think you have some important information to share with us. Wanna put some shoes on or are you coming in your socks?"

Mickey clenches his hands into fist. Repeats 'he's a cop, don't punch him' over in his head as he puts his boots back on and his hoodie. He's halfway out the door when he remembers Ian.

"Yo," he calls, "I'll be back later! You can stay watch tv and shit, I don't give a fuck."

Clearly with a mouthful of food, Ian calls, "'Kay, thanks, Mick!"

Closing the door, Mickey rolls his eyes; just a coffee his ass.

...

Tony isn't the worst cop Mickey's met, but he's way too optimistic.

He and his partner, Greg or some shit, ask Mickey the same three questions about a dozen times. Use different words because that'll clearly trick Mickey into answering them.

It isn't working and it still isn't working by the time Mickey's decided what his alibi will be and his lawyer, Maggie, bursts into the room, afro just grazing the top of the doorframe.

"And what's this I see? Questioning my client without a lawyer present?" She smiles, heels clicking as she walks over to the table and slams down her leather briefcase. "Now I know y'all are smart enough to know that that isn't the way it works. I can always get a senior-"

Tony abruptly closes his file and stands. "You have five minutes," he says. Leaves with probably-Greg.

The lock clicks and then Maggie is on his ass. "What the fuck, Milkovich?!" She mutters under breath and takes one of the seats opposite him. Her pale pink blouse looks ready to pop open when she stretches, small glimpses of her tits showing through the spaces between buttons.

Mickey looks down at his hands. "It's cool, alright?"

"It's cool? Really? God damn, thought this guy was your friend."

Mickey shrugs. Whatever. "I can get someone to verify an alibi, it's nothin'." He picks dirt from under his nails. Friendship means jack shit to a lot of cooks and dealers. If it means they can get less time, they'll rat on their own fucking mother. Not all. But some. Mickey wasn't aware that Adam belonged in that category. The brief hurt is easy to ignore, push below other things that he's way more comfortable feeling. Like anger and annoyance. Mickey can thrive off of those two.

Lips settled in a flat line, Maggie sighs at him, head propped up by her hand. "Why not get yourself an honest job?"

Mickey snorts. "What, like you?" he says, cruel tinge to his voice. Because everyone knows that "Magic Maggie" who "can make all your legal issues disappear" is just as criminal as her clients.

"Fine then. Get your alibi sorted." She stands again, brushes her hand down her suit paints. "They're gonna let you go, anyways, but they'll be coming back soon, so sort it out." And she leaves without another word.

Five minutes later and Mickey is released. He's straight on the phone, calling Ty; he needs somebody's number.


End file.
